


Lupus in fabula

by incendiary1 (trycatpennies)



Series: Lupus in Fabula [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/M, Multi, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trycatpennies/pseuds/incendiary1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first birthday card is an assault. He can smell it as soon as he walks in the house, the scent he’s cached away somewhere in the back of his mind. It’s faint here, overlayed by his own smell and El’s perfume over hers. But he can smell it. Caffrey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lupus in fabula

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to hello_mcee for the beta and the title.

Charleston is the first time he catches wind of it. There’s a scent, distinctive only in that Peter’s sure he’s smelled it before, and he’s never been to South Carolina. He thinks about it, stopped in the middle of the scene (a museum, small but big enough to have a temporary exhibit of Sisely originals provided by a private benefactor -- or at least they had all been originals) with his hands poised above the near perfect forgery. A scent. Someone. Male. Wolf. Not that that narrows it down, considering it covers about a quarter of the population. He focuses, letting his own wolf rise, just thrilling under the surface, and he can smell more: not an alpha. And familiar.

Peter shuts his wolf down and grabs his phone, dialing, a smile starting to spread across his face.

“Jones, remember the Bagglione forgery? In New Orleans?” He’s fighting to keep the excitement out of his voice. “I think this Sisely forger is the same guy. Probably the same as the Millet in Chicago two months ago, too.”

If he’s right, then they’re dealing with someone far more talented, far more clever than Peter’s dealt with before. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. He gives Jones some stuff to look into and ends the call, fingers hovering over the horizon line of the forged painting.

This could be fun. 

-

Peter sticks another pin in the map. Montreal. A small Tom Thompson painting. Not worth much, but the right collector could make it worth a criminal’s while. 

“Do we know that one’s him?” Jones asks, from his seat in Peter’s chair. Peter, sitting on his desk, shrugs.

“No. The red pins are ones that we have evidence for. The green ones are ones that fit his MO, but that we’ve got nothing on. The Montreal hit seems a little out of his usual range.”

There are pins spread over most of the United States, a larger red concentration in the North East, but the green pins stretch across the whole world map. One of them is even as far flung as Malaysia. It’s unlikely, but--

“The last confirmed one was...” Jones starts, flipping through the file to find out. 

“Seattle,” Peter answers, without glancing away from the map. “A lesser known Gauguin. We found the fence, burned an alias.”

He can feel Jones staring at him.

“We’re not getting any closer, are we boss,” Jones says, and Peter turns, looks at him, considering.

“No, not really,” Peter grins and then taps the file that Jones is holding, where a white label indicates the file name: _Neal Caffrey_. “But at least now we have a name. Now let’s see if we can keep that file from getting any thicker.”

-

“Kate Moreau,” Peter says, tapping the picture El slides across their dining room table at him. “We don’t know too much about her. She’s the closest thing Caffrey’s got to an alpha, and we’re pretty sure they’re bonded, considering how long they’ve stuck together. Most criminals in their line of work prefer not to have ties that close. It creates a liability.”

El steals a sip of Peter’s beer and looks at the picture of Kate again.

“A liability?” El asks and Peter nods.

“First there’s always the chance they’d turn on you,” he says, and he shuffles through some more papers. “But Moreau wasn’t a criminal until she met Caffrey, and Caffrey’d always worked alone before he met her. It’s enough of a discrepancy for both of them to indicate a life shift. Also obviously Caffrey’s more stable bound, so.”

“She’s pretty,” El says, grinning.

“Yeah,” Peter admits, taking his beer back from El. “And Caffrey’s always liked pretty.”

-

“He was just here, I’m sure of it.” 

Peter curses, slamming a hand into the doorframe. He’s standing in the entrance of a boutique hotel, and the whole thing reeks of Neal. Both literally in the sense that Peter can smell him everywhere, and figuratively, in the case that the missing painting from the lobby fits his MO perfectly. 

He sends Jones and another agent through each of the hotel’s fifteen rooms, and takes the stairs two at a time when they tell him they’ve found Caffrey’s. He’d been staying under an alias, either a new or a very old one. Peter’s managed to burn at least the last three. The room is in shambles, seemingly abandoned in haste, and Peter curses again.

He’d been so close.  
-

Hughes thinks Neal is getting sloppy. There’s video evidence, a surveillance tape with Neal glancing up at the camera, pupils flashing. Wolf eyes, glowing in the glare of the motion-activated light that caught him. 

Peter doesn’t think Neal’s gotten sloppy. Cocky, sure. It’s not like Neal doesn’t know the FBI is after them. He’s sure Neal’s caught Peter’s scent, as sure as Peter’s caught his.

No, this isn’t sloppy. This is Neal saying hello. 

-

 

The storage warehouse is deserted apart from two cars outside, one of which they’d tagged as belonging to Kate. Peter signals his men into position and checks his watch. They saw Neal go in, but they need to give him a minute to make sure he’s where he should be. Peter’s itching with it, his wolf pacing. It’s a hunt, the culmination of a very long time tracking Neal and Neal’s wolf, and part of Peter can’t help but let his own wolf experience it too.

“You ready?” Jones asks, unholstering his gun. The adrenaline is high, everyone tense, ready to take Caffrey down, and Peter can feel the satisfaction of wrapping up a long chase settling into his bones.

“It’s been a long time coming,” Peter says, and he checks his watch again, motioning the men to start entering, Peter following close behind.

He can smell Neal the second he hits the door of the storage room, and it takes all his willpower not to trample down the agents surrounding Neal. He wants to growl, bare his teeth. The kill is _his--_

“Agent Burke,” Neal says, finally meeting Peter’s eyes, and Peter’s careful not to get too close. Not with his wolf practically snarling, still telling him to push Neal down and bare his belly to the world.

“Neal,” Peter answers, voice far calmer than he feels. Neal sticks out his hand and Peter looks at him, amazed. It’s the first time they’ve met face to face despite a near encounter in Midtown where Peter swears Neal waited just to see him in the flesh, an opportunity Neal’d been careful to deny Peter of. Peter still remembers how fresh Neal’s scent had been, though it’s nothing compared to now.

Neal’s flooding him right now, scent and emotion rolling off him. He’s responding to Peter’s aggression, and it’s coming across as a combination of fear and defiance, which makes Peter want to laugh and Peter’s wolf want to teach him a lesson.

Peter shakes his hand, instead, and Jones cuffs him.

 

-

He catches Neal two days before the full moon.

 

“Congratulations, hon,” El says, for probably the tenth time that night, voice soft and proud. It’s late, his flight came in at ass o’clock that morning, and Jones and a few others had been over earlier. And he’s possibly a little drunk.

“I didn’t think I’d find him,” Peter says, absently, and El hmms, cuddling up against his chest. They’re mostly horizontal on the couch, a half bottle of champagne on the floor next to them. 

“How did it feel?” El asks, and Peter shrugs.

“I’ve been chasing him for a long time, and it was a good take down. By the book, you know? Felt great.” He feels Elizabeth huff in annoyance against his chest. “What?”

“I don’t want a press statement, Peter. How did it feel to _meet_ him? After all this time?”

The question takes Peter aback, for a moment, and he only realizes he’s tensed because he feels El go rigid against him. It’s hard, this close to the moon, to keep their emotions from bleeding. It’s common with bonded pairs. 

“I liked him,” he answers. “He has a good smile.”

-

It’s the closest he’s been since he actually caught Neal.

Peter’s sitting in the witness stand, the DA pacing in front of him. Neal’s scent is stronger here than it is where Peter usually watches, from the back row of the courtroom, and what’s worse is the look Neal’s giving him. Like he’s thoroughly amused at what Peter’s said so far and he can’t wait to hear more. Peter’s been sitting in the courtroom for three weeks, watching the DA tear down the evidence; stuff Peter's sure Caffrey did, if not just because he could smell him all over it. Juries aren’t wont to believe wolf senses as legitimate evidence; just because that Degas forgery has Caffrey’s scent layered into it as surely as the oil paints used to create it doesn’t mean it can be proven to the average run of the mill human.

“Agent Burke?” 

The DA is looking at him, one eyebrow raised, and Peter pulls his eyes away from Neal’s grin to look at the lawyer instead.

"Sorry, what was the question?” 

-

“He’s not what I expected.” El’s voice is carefully neutral. 

Peter’s exhausted and he knows he’s broadcasting it. The trial ran late today. El made the call that they should eat before they drove home so they're sitting in a diner, El’s hands cupped around a mug of coffee, Peter fiddling absently with his wedding ring.

“He isn’t?”

It’s loaded, they both know it. El’s heard so much about Neal. Peter’s shown her pictures, probably shared too much, considering Neal’s a case.

“Photographs don’t really catch it.” 

Her answer is simple, but Peter smirks. Neither of them need to explain what it is that the photographs are missing. They’re missing the life, the sparkle that’s always in Neal’s eyes. They don’t hold the scent of him, something spicy warm that settles somewhere in Peter’s gut.

“Did he do it? All of it?” El asks, and Peter sighs.

“Yeah, he did all of it. It’s going to get shot down, but we’ll get him on something. He should probably be locked up for decades,” Peter answers, but even he knows it’s starting to sound like rote now. He’s not sure he believes it anymore. Not now that he’s met Neal.

Peter knows this is normally where El suggests he come straight home after work tomorrow, instead of going to watch the trial. He’s refused every time she’s mentioned it, mostly without explanation.

“I’ll meet you with coffee after you’re done tomorrow? Then we can be at the courthouse for four.”

“Thanks, hon,” Peter says, and he hopes his voice conveys exactly how thankful he is to have her there.  
-

They eventually get him on bond forgery. El buys champagne and they toast to a job well done, but something sits unsettled in Peter’s stomach at the thought of Caffrey in a jail cell. 

He’s sure it’s just the fact that the sentence isn’t long enough. Should have been ten times what he got. 

-

The first birthday card is an assault. He can smell it as soon as he walks in the house, the scent he’s cached away somewhere in the back of his mind. It’s faint here, overlayed by his own smell and El’s perfume over hers. But he can smell it. Caffrey. 

He perks up and lets his nose lead him into the kitchen, where the mail is stacked on the counter and El is watching him, an amused expression on her face and a glass of wine next to her. He hadn’t even noticed her. 

“You got something from Sing Sing,” she says, and she sounds even more amused than she looks. 

He knows she can smell it too. Maybe not right away, and not as keenly as Peter does, but she’s smelled Caffrey on Peter before, from when he’d gotten close and when he’d gotten too close. And she’s not stupid; Peter doesn’t know many people at Sing Sing.

It’s a birthday card, charcoal on heavy stock. It’s a sketch of a Caravaggio and Caffrey’s managed to catch the light and dark contrast, even just with charcoal on paper. It takes Peter’s breath away, leaving him to huff out a laugh when he opens it and it’s signed simply: _Best wishes, NC._

-

When Peter catches him the second time, Kate’s scent is barely there. It’s not because Caffrey’s is overpowering (though it is) but because Kate’s long gone, and Peter knows it even before he finds Caffrey slumped against the pillar, wine bottle in hand, defeated. It’s a wolf with a bond stretched thin, betrayed but unbroken. Only death breaks a bond.

He lets the SWAT team clear the rest of the nearly barren apartment and takes the bottle from Caffrey. It’ll be logged as evidence, eventually. He handles it carefully. Because of fingerprints, he tells himself. It has nothing to do with how delicately Caffrey’d been holding it, or how fragile Caffrey looks now. 

-

“Are you sure about this, Peter?” Hughes asks and Peter shrugs.

“As much as I can be, I guess,” Peter answers. He’s trying to forget the way Neal looked at him in that prison meeting room. He’d looked caged. ”I can definitely catch him, if he runs again. And the DOJ’s looking into an electronic tracking device, since ‘I’m a werewolf, I can smell him’ isn’t exactly the safety net their they’re looking for.”

“Do you think he can help?” Hughes says after a moment, steepling his fingers.

“Yes, I think he can. He’s one of the best. And it’d be nice to have someone on our side, for once.”

“A tracking device, huh?” Hughes looks up at him, wary.

“Something about an anklet. Don’t ask me,” Peter replies, and he stands, straightening his jacket. “I just work here.”

-

Peter’s not sure he’s going to get used to smelling Neal’s scent when he walks into work. Even if Neal’s not there, constantly a few minutes behind Peter’s prompt arrival, the office still seems permeated. 

It’s only been two weeks; one of logistical nightmares and a chaotic flurry of paperwork, liaising with US Marshals and the DOJ, and one of tracking the Dutchman down and finding Caffrey grinning smugly from atop Hagen's desk, tracking anklet blinking.

“Penny for your thoughts, Agent Burke?” 

It’s Neal’s voice, and Peter curses himself at being taken unaware. He’s getting desensitized to Neal’s distinctive traits; the things that helped him track him down and catch him (twice).

“No, Caffrey. I don’t trust you with pennies,” Peter answers, gruff. Neal grins at him, and Peter hands him the case they're working on, face carefully schooled into neutrality.

-

“He’s not going to do anything untoward,” Neal’s voice is reassuring. His smile isn’t. 

Peter eyes Haversham (Mozzie, as he’d introduced himself to El) with suspicion. He’s human, that’s all Peter knows, apart from the fact that Mozzie is an acquaintance of Neal’s, and Peter doesn’t like him puttering around in his home. Peter’s not even entirely comfortable with _Neal_ in his home, yet. 

He’s also not exactly when Neal became so friendly with his wife. He’s moved to El already, the two of them leaning over the counter, heads bent together, leaving Peter standing near the door, hackles raised.

“Down boy,” Mozzie says, grinning. Peter growls, slamming the door closed. 

-

The first time they cut the anklet for a sting, Peter almost panics. He answers his phone, confirms with the Marshals that everything is above board, and then he fights to keep his heart rate down without examining too closely the reason he’s so on edge, his wolf chomping at the bit to go after Caffrey, bring him back.

He tells El about it that night, when she picks up the remaining scent of fear and possessiveness clinging to his skin. 

“What bugged you more, hon? The fact that he could theoretically run, or that he could run with her?” El asks, pouring herself a second glass of wine. Peter’s peeling the label off his beer bottle, and he doesn’t answer. 

It’s been weeks since he caught Neal showing El the fake bond from the Dutchman, and their couch still smells like him.

-

“You guys never wanted a pack?” Neal asks, popping another shrimp in his mouth. Peter glares at him. There’s only so many shrimp in his pad thai and he’d prefer to keep them for himself.

“Hands off my food, Caffrey,” Peter says, pointing a chopstick at him. Neal’s looking at him, waiting for an answer, and Peter sighs. “We were both from different packs when we met. I knew that as soon as I bonded I wouldn’t be able to stay in my pack as a beta, and I wasn’t interested in fighting for it with the current alpha. So El left her pack, I left mine. We intended to find more people, start one of our own. It just never happened.”

“Still looking for the right one?” Neal prods and Peter raises an eyebrow.

“If there was a right one, we wouldn’t be opposed. Couldn’t be an alpha, though. And El’s a pushy beta.”

“I have a feeling you like pushy betas,” Neal teases and Peter snorts.

“'Like is one word for it,” he teases, looking at Neal fondly. 

He lets Neal steal another shrimp. 

-

They make a good team, him and Neal. It’s symbiotic, and Peter appreciates the way Neal’s mind works. He appreciates the challenge of working with Neal as much as he’d appreciated the challenge of trying to catch him. 

He doesn’t examine too closely the way he feels when he thinks about Neal spending nearly four years in prison. It’d been different, sending Neal there before he knew him. Now, seeing how Neal is, the way he takes things in, everything from the terrible coffee in the office to the view from his apartment roof, makes Peter ache a little at the idea of Neal ever going back.

Especially since he knows it’d always be him putting Neal in there. 

-

“The day before is always the worst,” Neal says. 

It’s a non-sequitur, which Peter’s learned is not unusual for Neal. But Neal rarely talks about his wolf, so this is surprising. 

“Before the moon? Yeah.” Peter’s voice is carefully nonchalant. His expression is too, but Neal isn’t looking at him. He’s focused on the street in front of them. They’re walking from Peter’s car to the office, it's a cold November morning in New York, and both of them are clutching coffees. 

“I’m itching to run,” Neal continues, and he sounds wistful. “I haven't. Since Kate left.”

Central Park is designated for running, during the moon. The last mayor had fenced it, worked with a werewolf coalition to create the rules and freedoms that allowed the wolves free run of the Park during the full moon. It was a freedom they needed within the city. There wasn’t much room to run, otherwise, and most wolves took advantage of it. If they passed the criteria. 

Bonded pairs. Stable packs. 

Neal has neither. 

“You and El run in the Park, right?” Neal continues, and Peter nods, watching Neal carefully. Neal smiles at him. “Must be nice.”

-

As isolated as Neal seems, Peter never really sees Neal alone, in every sense, until Kate’s death.

It’s incredibly rare for a wolf of Neal’s age to be unbonded. Even when he and Kate were apart, the bond was there, threading them together, urging Neal to keep looking, to search her out. It gave him a purpose.

Peter can practically feel it when Kate’s gone. He’s holding Neal, restraining him from running into the flames, when the fight slumps out of him, like a string that’s pulled taut suddenly cut.

-

“He’s trying to find out who killed Kate,” Peter sighs, and he glances at the muted game on television. El’s in California, and he aches with missing her. “I’m worried.”

“Worried about what, hon?” El asks, and he waits for her to continue, knows that’s not the end of the question. “Worried that he’ll find out, worried that he’ll do something he’s not supposed to, or worried he can’t let go?”

“All three, I guess,” Peter answers, rubbing his face. “I thought he was getting better.”

“Oh, sweetie,” El says and Peter’s next breath is a little shaky. “You’ve got to give him time. He lost his mate, his bonded. That’s not something you get over in a month and a half. Can you imagine if--”

“No, don’t,” Peter interrupts her. He’s already missing her enough, he feels sick at the idea of losing her forever. 

“Just give him time,” El says, gently. “You’ll know how to help him if he needs it.”

-

It’s pouring, and Neal slams the car door, glaring at Peter. “I cannot believe you did that.” 

Peter doesn’t look at him, focusing on getting the car started and the heat on. It’s a cold rain. “Did what?” He flips the heater to full, rubbing his hands together. Neal seems unaffected, too busy being angry.

Neal doesn’t answer, just clenches his jaw and stares out the window, bristling anger. Peter knows why he’s angry, even if he’s feigning ignorance. He’s never done it before, but he’s also never almost watched Neal walk into certain death. So he’d ordered Neal not to. And Neal had submitted.

And now Peter feels like an asshole. It’s an abuse of power, it’s an abuse of the relationship they’ve built, the dynamic already so skewed, with the green light blinking around Neal’s ankle.

He starts the car, pulling into traffic, and neither of them says a word. 

-

There’s an origami paper rose tucked into the book El’s reading, and Peter watches her touch it, idly, while she’s settled on the couch with a glass of wine. He doesn’t ask her about it; he can smell Neal on it from here, even over El’s scent that pervades the house. He just goes back to watching the game, smiling. 

-

“Has it really been that bad?” El asks, frowning, and Peter watches her steady hands as she sets down her tea cup.

June nods, sadly. “Neal’s changes were always so calm. He’d come out for coffee the next morning looking like he’d just been on vacation. I know that it’s rough for some wolves. Byron’s were terrible, that’s why we had the cage installed in the first place.”

“And now Neal’s, what?” Peter asks. “Howling?”

“I wouldn’t know, actually. His apartment is soundproofed. We figured that one out early on, me and Byron. No, it’s more the day after. He’s withdrawn, pale as a sheet. I caught him with a first aid kit the other day. I think he’s hurting himself, up there.” June sets her own cup down and shakes her head. “He’s just not himself, Peter.”

“You think it’s got something to do with Kate being gone,” Peter says and June nods.

“I’ve done my research,” she tells them. “An unbonded wolf, without an alpha, at his age? He’s a danger to himself, mourning her.”

It’s not until later, once they’re in their kitchen at home, that El brings it up.

“Is it affecting his work?” Her voice is gentle, and Peter tamps down on the anger he feels, just from that question. It’s irrational, fueled by concern and frustration.

“Yes,” he admits. “Hughes already mentioned it. It’s dangerous to have someone like that around. Unbonded, no pack, no alpha. That kind of wolf is temperamental. So, yeah. It’s come up.”

“And?” El says, and Peter glances at her, before begrudgingly answering.

“His hands have been shaking. I’m worried.” Not on a professional level, either. And he knows El knows that.

“Me too,” she answers, and Peter squeezes her hand when she takes his, tangling their fingers together.

-

“I don’t care how Sterling Bosch does it,” Peter snarls at Sara, teeth bared. He slams a hand on the conference table and Neal flinches. “We do this my way, and that’s with evidence and a warrant, not a baton and a hunch.”

“I am not going to sit around and let six hundred grand practically walk out of the country under my nose,” Sara yells back, and Peter doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward, bristling with aggression and anger, until Hughes slams the conference room door open, startling all of them.

“Back down, both of you. This is a board room, not a boxing ring,” he says, voice calm but commanding. Peter takes a step back, holding up both his hands in surrender. Sara looks equally embarrassed. Hughes glares. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Nothing, sir,” Neal pipes up. Peter bites back the wave of aggression, and he can feel Sara do the same, their wolves metaphorically circling each other.

“Neal,” Sara says through gritted teeth and a spark of tension. Peter’s jaw hurts from how he’s holding it so tightly clenched. “Could you give Peter and I minute?”

Neal nods and follows Hughes out of the room, clicking the door shut behind him.

“Wow,” Sara says, exhaling, and the tension is gone, just like that, dissipated. She slumps into a chair and Peter echoes the movement, the fight gone out of him.

“Sorry about that,” Peter says, and he rubs his hands over his face. “Hughes and I never have any problems, but maybe this two alpha thing is--”

“Is that what you think this is about, Peter?” Sara asks, surprised.

Peter looks up at her, bewildered. “Well, I mean. We’re both trying to take control of the case and--”

“Oh, no. Peter, that’s not it at all,” Sara glances out the glass wall of the board room and then moves around the table, sitting next to him. The aggression of the earlier moment is completely gone, and he lets her lean in close. “We’re fighting over Neal.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “Over Neal? I don’t recall his name coming up when we were fighting about the legality of breaking and entering. Which, come to think of it, is odd.”

“Peter, we’re both alphas and Neal’s an unclaimed, fully adult, packless wolf,” she says, ignoring his glib remark.

“So?”

“So,” she says, pointedly. “We’re fighting over Neal.”

Peter doesn’t answer. She’s right, and it’s not the first time someone’s brought up his possessiveness of Neal. El’s mentioned it a few times, actually. Peter’s been trying to deny it, chalking it up to El’s overly sensitive senses, but if outsiders are noticing...

“I don’t know how to handle this,” he admits.

“Just claim him,” Sara says, and rolls her eyes at Peter’s snort of disbelief. “I know, it’s not that simple, but he cares about you, and you care about him. Is it your wife you’re worried about?”

“No,” Peter says, laughing weakly. “She’s actually suggested it. We’ve been watching him suffer, Sara. For months, since his alpha was killed. He’s not the same, the shifts have been harder. It’s been rough. But I don’t even know if that’s what he wants, let alone if he’d ever go for it. I’ve already got him on an anklet, Sara.”

“That wouldn’t be the same,” she says, but she looks like she’s not sure she believes it.

“Wouldn’t it? Trading the mechanical tracking device for a werewolf one? I couldn’t even be sure he’d be doing it of his own free will. I’m his boss, I’m an alpha, it’s a position of power thing. Doesn’t matter what I want,” Peter says. He feels a weight lift in the admission that he does in fact want it. “It wouldn’t be right.”

-

“Caffrey, hands off my wife,” Peter says, gruffly amused. El laughs and Neal, to his credit, looks sheepish.

“Sorry, Peter. We were just practicing,” Neal starts to apologize, but El puts her hands back in his, glancing at Peter.

“Neal is helping me learn this dance I need to know for this event next week. It’s some Milanese waltz or something. Anyway, I’m terrible.”

“You’re not,” Neal admonishes, and he smiles warmly at her. She hushes him, smacking his arm lightly. “I promise you, Elizabeth Burke. If you were terrible, I’d tell you. You’re lovely.”

“You’re a sweetheart,,” El says, and Peter snorts.

“He’s a con artist,” Peter reminds El, and Neal rolls his eyes, smirking.

“That doesn’t mean it’s a lie. Now,” Neal says, glancing at Peter. “You sit and let me teach your wife. Then maybe we’ll try putting you through your paces.”

Peter gives him a look of disbelief, but neither El nor Neal are looking at him anymore, their heads bent  
together as Neal counts them off, spinning her slowly around the dining room.

-

Peter kisses the inside of El’s knee and looks up at her. She’s not looking at him, even though she’s touching him, hands threaded into his hair, petting distractedly.

“I’m sorry, am I not holding your interest?” he asks, mock offended.

She blinks, surprised, and then flushes. “Sorry, hon. I’m just thinking,” she says, letting him pull her closer when he slides back up and lies down next to her. “You were doing a good job.”

“Damn right I was,” he says, and he kisses her, gentle. “Can we talk about it?”

It’s three days from the full moon, and he can feel her wolf, closer to the surface than usual. She feels anxious, he can tell. El’s rarely anxious.

“June called me,” she says, after a minute. “I think you should claim Neal. He’s getting worse, hon.”

“I know,” Peter says, and he frowns. “But we talked about this, El. It’s an abuse of power. I’ve already messed up once, I can’t risk it again.”

“Have you asked Neal what he wants?” El’s voice is soft, but insistent, and Peter shakes his head.

“No, I haven’t. But I can’t trust--” Peter starts and El cuts him off.

“Hon, at a certain point, you only have to trust two things: that you care about Neal, and that Neal cares about you. Ask him, ok?”

-

“I can't keep doing this with you, Peter.” Sara’s voice is tinny over the phone but Peter can make out her anger, crystal clear.

“Dammit Sara, now really isn’t the time--”

Peter grips the steering wheel and pulls off the road as far as he can. The anger in Sara’s voice has him seeing double, his own wolf responding to the aggression.

“It’s driving me crazy having him around, and I know it’s doing the same to you,” Sara sounds strained, desperate. “For fuck’s sake, claim him. Or I’m going to.”

-

“What’s wrong with Caffrey?”

Hughes is standing in Peter’s office when Peter shows up, late. It’s the day after a shift though, and Hughes usually cuts the wolves on the unit some slack despite being human himself.

“Day after a shift, sir, he could be a little later than usual. But I wouldn’t assume something’s wrong,” Peter says, hanging up his jacket and adjusting his tie. His hand pauses at his throat when he notices the way Hughes is watching, concerned.

“No, Burke. I mean he’s here, but what’s wrong with him. He’s never been like this, not even the day after a shift. He’s barely walking, and he’s probably throwing up somewhere right now. He’s been gone from his desk every ten minutes for the past hour. Peter,” Hughes says, and steps back to let Peter practically fly past him, “I’m trusting you to take care of him. I don’t take the mental or physical well-being of any of my agents, wolf, criminal or otherwise, lightly. You do what you need to.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter answers, before cursing under his breath and taking the stairs from his office two at a time, heading for the bathrooms down the hall. “Fuck.”

-

Neal’s apartment is spotless, but Peter swallows thickly at the smell of blood flooding his senses, coming from the cage in the anteroom of the closet, hidden from view. There are deep gouges in the walls, everywhere. Neal’s in the washroom, throwing up again, so Peter clicks the door of the anteroom shut, blocking the sight at least, if not the smell.

Neal looks pale when he comes back into the dining room and Peter watches him walk, wobbling, to the couch before slumping down, eyes closed. He hasn’t said a word since Peter found him on the tile floor of the bathroom at work. Peter'd picked him up and told him he was taking him home, and that if Neal was going to vomit in the car, to tell him.

“Neal,” Peter says and Neal flinches without opening his eyes. Peter's voice sounds shockingly loud in the space of Neal’s apartment. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, Peter,” Neal says tiredly.

Peter’s heart clenches, and he bites back the angrily worried wolf he feels rising, because Neal’s voice sounds horrible, wracked and hoarse. Like he’d spent the whole night howling and the whole morning throwing up bile.

“Well hello, Suit,” Mozzie says from the doorway.

Peter could bite his head off (metaphorically) for interrupting, but he turns in his chair to look at Mozzie and he snaps his mouth shut. Mozzie’s got cleaning supplies in one hand, and what looks like a care package from Elizabeth in the other. Peter’s got a feeling Mozzie’s handled Neal like this before, which sends a jolt of guilt through Peter’s gut. It hurts him to think that Mozzie might be an old hand at caring for Neal when he’s like this. How many shifts has it been since Kate died? Too many.

He stands and resists the urge to touch Neal, turning and walking to the door instead, brushing past Mozzie.

“Don’t worry,” Mozzie mutters somberly under his breath as Peter walks by. “I’ll take care of him.”

-

Neal’s fine when he shows up for work three days later. Seemingly fine, because despite him telling Peter several times over that he’s ok, Peter is unconvinced.

“You still look pale,” Peter says, leaning forward in his chair. They’re in his office, door closed, and Neal’s fiddling with his hat.

“I’m fine, Peter,” Neal says, and he flashes Peter a patented Neal Caffrey grin. Peter doesn’t buy it for a second. Neal spins his hat on his finger and Peter grits his teeth, exhaling loudly through his nose.

“Stop playing with that goddamn hat.”

Neal’s hands freeze and he bites his lip, eyes downcast.

It’s not the first time Peter’s seen that look on Neal, but it’s the first time he’s recognizing it for what it truly is. Neal’s submitting, unable to resist the direct order.

“Sorry,” Peter flushes, embarrassed, but Neal shakes his head, panicked.

“Don’t be,” Neal says softly, and he sets the hat down, carefully. “I think I needed that.”

Neal sounds both lost and grateful, and something in Peter snaps.

“Neal,” he says, and he leans forward even more. “Can I ask you something?

“Yeah, Peter. Anything,” Neal says, and he looks up, meeting Peter’s eyes.

Peter nods, then fumbles for words for a second, trying to figure out how to express so much in words, when all his wolf wants to do is pin Neal to the floor and all the human part of him wants to do is hug Neal until Neal’s smile is real.

“I wanted to know if you’d be ok with me claiming you,” Peter says, slowly. “It’s not the most romantic proposal, I know. Maybe there should be candles or, flowers or. Not that that’s usual for a claiming, but maybe for you.”

Neal’s silent for a second before he cracks a real, true smile. It’s small, hesitant, but it’s there.

“You think I’d want flowers and candles from an alpha asking to claim me?” Neal’s voice is incredulous. Peter sort of wants to shake him to make him answer the damn question instead of picking apart the semantics of it.

“You’re a romantic,” Peter says, annoyed, but for the first time in weeks, he feels himself settling, like a dynamic that was missing (Neal being a brat, Peter being annoyed) has been restored, just like that.

“That I am,” Neal says, and he takes another second. “Does El know?”

“Neal, the entire world knows. I’ve had more people telling me to just claim you already than people who wished me a happy birthday last year.” Peter pauses, taking a breath. “Yes, El knows. She’s all in.”

“And you, Peter?” Neal asks, and Peter has to tamp down his wolf again. He can’t help it with Neal looking at him like that, somewhere between submission, desperation and lust. “Are you all in?”

“I’ve been in for awhile, I think.”

-

“Go home, Neal. I can’t get anything done with you here right now.”

Peter doesn’t look up from where he’s signing reports in triplicate. It’s Friday, end of the day. Neal’s tapping his foot, hat in his lap. It’s a full moon tonight, Neal’s first shift with him and El, and he’s radiating tension.

“Is El home?” Neal asks, standing.

“Yeah, she’s getting stuff ready for tonight,” Peter answers absently. “Text me when you’re with her. I’ll meet you guys at the Park.”

The text comes twenty minutes later and Peter curses, checking the time. He throws his suit jacket back on and locks his door, bolting through the bullpen. He’s only about an hour out from dark, and the Park isn’t far, but it’s Neal’s first time going in and he wants to make sure things go smoothly.

El greets him at the gate with a kiss on the cheek, and it’s so close to the moon Peter bites back the urge to pin her against the wall. She smirks at him and steps back.

Neal’s standing a careful distance away and Peter turns and looks at him, waiting.

They haven’t really figured this out yet. It’d only been a few days after the last moon when he’d asked Neal if he could claim him, and it’s been a slow process figuring things out. At work, at home. Neal hasn’t really moved in, though he’s spent a few nights in the guest room, all three of them lying awake, Peter’s sure.

But it seems like a big step, the one from a domestic little threesome (oh, wow) into a fully bonded pack.

“Come here,” Peter says, and Neal takes a step toward him, submitting to the direct order.

“Hi,” Neal says, and he’s in Peter’s space, his scent everywhere, and Peter has to close his eyes, take a second. When he opens his eyes, Neal’s smirking. Peter scowls.

“Oh my god, you two,” El huffs out, but it’s more excited and fond than annoyed. “It’s nearly dark, would you just do it already.”

“Pushy beta,” Neal comments, grinning, and Peter shuts him up, pulling him in for a firm kiss. It’s not particularly smooth, but it’s good to finally do this, to feel Neal submit under him.

“I like pushy betas,” Peter reminds him, pulling back for some air. Neal’s looking a little dazed but also pleased, and El nuzzles up behind him, sandwiching Neal between them.

“Come on, let’s run.”  



End file.
